Back in their seats, the three drank lemon shakeups and devoured their fry bread while watching the hoop dancer’s performance. The yellow fringe on his legs and arms matched the strips dangling from the hoops, which worked their way up and down his body and limbs as if moving of their own volition.
Wade volunteered to get another fry bread for them to split, so long as Darci and Paxton agreed to top it with honey, his personal favorite. Nobody objected, not even his indecisive wife.
By the time Wade came back and sat down, honey dripping onto the extra napkins, the next artist had entered the circle. A Cherokee man, his long dark hair blowing in the gentle breeze, played the flute he’d just told the crowd he made himself, a skill passed down from his grandfather to his father, then on to him. The melody carried a dreamy, surreal quality unlike anything Darci’d ever heard before. The trills from that instrument would make a canary break down in a fit of jealousy. A woozy sensation came over her as she listened, maybe from the combination of her full stomach and the heat; she closed her eyes and the dizzy spell soon passed. As the final notes filled the summer day, the emcee announced that the flutist had a booth set up where the audience could buy his latest CD.
“Sweet!” Paxton bounced up and down on the seat. “Please, can I have one? Maybe if I buy one of his CDs, he might give me his autograph.”
The flutist had many fans, judging from the cluster of people thronged around his booth waiting for a chance to buy his merchandise and talk to him in person. A lady in line in front of them mentioned that the musician had performed in a few western movies, which left Paxton even more star struck.
Wade spotted fishing lures for sale in a booth to the left as Paxton hugged his autographed program and new CD to his chest.
“Wade, I swear you’d live on a fishing boat if you could figure out how to bring a TV on board and get pizza delivered in the middle of the river.” Uninterested in staring at a bunch of tiny hooks and tie lures, Darci told the boys to take their time looking around and to meet her by the lemon shakeup stand in about an hour.
The booths sold a lot of items that caught her eye. She bought a pair of turquoise earrings trimmed in silver; it only took her fifteen minutes to decide between them and a jade necklace, but she was happy with her choice. The next craftsman sold her a hand-beaded bracelet. She snatched up a wooden flute and instruction book, sure Paxton’s face would light up when she surprised him with it. As an afterthought, she hoped he wouldn’t drive her crazy playing the thing, like with the drums his uncle gave him for Christmas two years ago. Oh well, she still had earplugs tucked in her nightstand, just in case.
Darci noticed an unusual fragrance as she rearranged the bags in her arms. Exotic without the cheap synthetic hint of commercial incense, the scent drew her into the next kiosk. Inside, a Native American women demonstrated something called smudging. A small bundle of sage tied with twine smoldered on a large shell the woman held as she fanned the fragrant smoke with the feather in her other hand. Darci crowded in to hear her speak.
“. . . smudging is a popular practice in other cultures, not just with Native American tribes. Smoke from sage and other herbs contains properties for purification and protection. Some people just like the scent, so they lay bundles on the logs in their hearth whenever they light a cozy fire. Others use it instead of incense. Smudging removes negative energy from houses, and it can ward off depression and other physical or mental ailments.” Demonstrating on the volunteer, the lady fanned sage smoke toward the man in front of her, telling him to think positive thoughts as smoky wisps swirled around him from toe to head, since she started at the bottom and worked her way up. “This isn’t some magical quick fix or miracle cure, but it helps focus positive energy.”
Darci remembered an article she read on this subject, in which New Age practitioners, doctors, and scientists discussed the varying aspects of holistic practices, including smudging. The scientists said nothing negative about sage smudges, just that they weren’t convinced they did any good. One of the doctors did say she used them to freshen up her office.
This demonstration was every bit as fascinating as the performances going on in the tribal circle. People lined up to buy things afterward, so Darci waited for the crowd to thin out. She picked up a basket and looked through each of the tables lined with goods. Shelves on one wall lined the tent-like structure of the booth, on which neat bundles of sage and other herbs lay in tidy stacks. Baggies safeguarded the finer herb powders like saffron, rather than risk the expensive little pieces blowing away. A table on the far side held a myriad of books, some on Native American culture, medicinal plant use, herbology, and floral crafts. The stand in the center held smudging supplies that included turkey feathers for fanning the smoke and large flat seashells. Darci thought they came from clams until she read the label on the abalone shells. Beside them sat ornately carved wooden boxes made to hold the smudging kits. One of each of those went into her basket, which by this point threatened to overflow. She placed it by the register and picked up a second.
Another table displayed what looked like long two-inch-wide strips constructed of some kind of stiff grass. Darci picked up a bundle, held it to her nose and closed her eyes as she sniffed, pretty sure the intoxicating fragrance from the plaits was responsible for luring her into this little booth of herbal paradise.
Someone beside her laughed, which caused Darci to open her eyes and look around. She felt like a little girl caught sampling the perfume counter at Macy’s.
“Smells good, doesn’t it?” said the owner of the booth, the woman who’d given the demonstration. “It’s called sweetgrass. Here, I’ll light a piece of it. I love this stuff, myself. Never get tired of the scent.” She introduced herself as Sue, reached under the table for a smaller bundle, and placed it on the abalone shell she’d used for the sage smudge.
“Ahh, this is better than perfume.” Darci cupped her hand over the smoldering shell and fanned the smoke toward her nose. “So, do you use this sort of like a room freshener? It smells wonderful.”
“I keep some hanging in my house for the scent,” Sue explained, “but a lot of people use it in smudges, just like the sage and cedar bundles.”
Kids running through the next booth over bumped into a table. Pottery on display shattered to the ground. The unexpected racket drew a startled squeal from Darci’s lips as she ducked for cover.
“Sorry.” Darci stood back up, embarrassed over making a spectacle of herself. Thankfully, most eyes were turned toward the two people trying to talk their way out of having to pay for what their destructive children just broke. “Guess my nerves got the best of me.”
“You don’t have anything to worry about.” Sue patted Darci’s shoulder, then peered deeply into her eyes as if she saw much more than the green flecks in her brown irises. “I get the impression plenty of protective spirits watch over you.” She fanned more sweetgrass smoke toward Darci. “Now, what else can I show you?”
When Wade and Paxton grew tired of waiting by the lemon shakeup stand, they found Darci still jabbering away with Sue, piling things on the counter.
Darci loved what she did and loved to shop, she just didn’t like spending money. She smiled down at her great deals, eager to set up a new display on Petal Pusher’s shelves.
Good thing Wade drove a king cab or all the stuff never would’ve fit. Paxton carried his new CD and autograph, the flute and music book his mom gave him, some fishing lures he’d picked out, and one of Darci’s bags. Wade had a much larger package full of fishing tackle, another with a massive hunting knife in its matching sheath, plus two more of Darci’s bags.
“I feel like a human pack horse.” Darci shifted her packages, determined not to drop anything. The jewelry she bought rode safely in small cardboard boxes that fit inside her purse, making them the only thing that didn’t take up much room. In a sturdy shopping bag, bubble wrap blanketed the carved wooden smudge box she bought for herself. Wade carried her heavier sacks, but sh
e could still see indentations from where those plastic handles had dug into her wrists. The rest of her load consisted of dried herbs, abalone shells, and a few dozen large feathers, the last of which Sue wrapped in tissue paper and placed on top.
Paxton glanced inside the bag he’d been asked to carry, then over at his mother. “Uh, Mom. What’s the deal with the tied up sticks in here?” His expression suggested his mom had fallen off her ever-loving rocker.
“Those aren’t sticks, silly,” Darci said, piling packages and bags behind her seat. “That’s sage, sweetgrass, and a few tobacco leaves. I decided to carry some of this holistic stuff in the shop.” With everything loaded into the truck, Darci told them about her ideas as they walked toward the museum on the other side of the park.
“What in the world are you going to do with tobacco leaves?” Wade asked, winking under his raised brow. “In case you forgot, we don’t smoke.”
“I’m gonna familiarize myself with all the traditional uses by reading some of those books you hauled across the parking lot for me,” Darci explained. “And people use tobacco to keep bugs out of places. Grandma Odette packed a few leaves in with her wedding dress. She told us kids it kept the moths away. Seemed to work. Anyway, I thought I’d put some in the new display, in case anybody comes asking for an all-natural insect repellant.”
“Sounds like this new line should be pretty interesting. Good idea, Hon.” Wade took her hand in his as they walked. “What do ya want to bet you’ll get a few teenage potheads trying to smoke some of that sage in a water bong. That’d be pretty funny, huh?” They laughed until Paxton interrupted with a question.
“What’s a water bomb and why would you put a bunch of dead weeds in one?” The grownups tried to straighten their faces but failed miserably. “Is it like a water balloon? Could me and Hoyt test ‘em out for you?”
“Don’t think that’d be such a hot idea, son,” Wade said, wiping the laughter from his eyes, then he cracked up again at the thought.
“I think you misunderstood your dad, because he was just talking nonsense.” Darci elbowed Wade in the stomach, then shot him one of her ‘look what you’ve gone and done now’ smirks. “We better go in the Heritage Center before it gets crowded.”
A guide led the way through the tiny museum inside an authentic log cabin. Glass display cases brimming with authentic memorabilia and artifacts from the Trail of Tears lined the hand-hewn log walls. Pictures of Cherokee Chief John Ross and his family made the whole Pow Wow experience even more personal, putting real faces to the horror of the march.
There were other sights to see on that side of the park after they left the museum. Statues of Chief Whitepath and Fly Smith, two Cherokee chiefs who died on the trail, stood near a small grove of trees. Their graves and a few others rested on the hill behind it, adorned with a small stones, quarters, and shredded tobacco emptied from unsmoked cigarettes people passing through had left to show their respect.
“How about a picture of you two standing in front of the monument?” Darci whipped out her camera while Wade and Paxton struck poses in front of the statues.
Conversation on the ride home shifted between Paxton’s ideas for his history project on the Trail of Tears and Wade’s eagerness to try out his new fishing tackle. Darci daydreamed about the display she would arrange with her new loot, which she hoped would make up for the money she lost last month on those stupid Dutch tulips.
“Good afternoon.” Darci thought she recognized the well-dressed gentleman even though the back of his head was the only thing she could see at the moment, since he’d stopped to look at a cluster of cut glass vases and candle holders. “What can I help you with today?”
“Wade asked me to stop by, to pick up some paperwork he left for me.” He spun around, stepped forward, and flashed a politician’s unmistakable smile. If baby Cole was here, she knew this guy’s lips would be all over him, just like they’d be all over every voter’s backside when election time rolled around next year. He extended his hand. “I’m Stetson Clydell, and you must be Darci.”
“Sure am, and I’ve got your stuff right here.” She shook his hand, then slid a manila envelope across the counter.
The room temperature dropped dramatically as an uneasy feeling overcame her. She had no idea why, but she wanted this man to leave. Wade worked all weekend on estimates and such, hoping to get the bid for the very lucrative additions to Clydell Manor, one of the nicest historic homes in Webster County. Fighting her unexplained desire to tell the man to take his crap and get out of her shop, she forced herself to be polite.
“Wade’s looking forward to working on this project, if everything works out. He was disappointed that he couldn’t be here to talk to you himself, but he had some emergency repairs to do on a client’s home in Slaughters that was damaged in that storm. A tree came down and took a chunk out of the roof, but at least everybody’s okay.”
“That’s fine. It’ll be spring before we get started on it, but that should give my wife and I plenty of time agree on the particulars.” A mask of practiced concern replaced his politician’s grin as he brushed fingers through his dark wavy hair, surprising Darci when he didn’t catch his pinky ring on any wayward curls. “Please do pass on my sympathy to that homeowner. Emergency aid is high on my list of priorities. Shelters, first responders, everything in the system will get updated as soon as I take office.”
Damn, she hoped this dipstick wouldn’t launch into one of his campaign speeches. One politician was about as bad as the next, in her humble opinion, and she frankly didn’t give two hoots in hell who won the next race for Kentucky State Representative. The Clydells had been in one office or another for at least four generations, so she figured he had a pretty good chance at winning, not that she gave a crap.
She still didn’t understand why this man was on her last nerve. He was harmless, she wasn’t in any danger, and his behavior wasn’t anything that should have brought up her radar. The fact that Roy Nolan hadn’t been arrested yet probably just made her more nervous than she ought to be.
Right as Stetson picked up the envelope with Wade’s estimate inside, the front door blew open. Considering that there hadn’t been any hint of a breeze this hot and balmy afternoon, along with the cold spot that hovered in the room, Darci felt pretty sure the Ghost Lady was responsible.
“Ouch!” Stetson shifted the envelope to his other hand and held his right fingertips up in front of his eyes. He glanced back at the manila edges, confused. “Now how did I manage to get a paper cut across three of my fingers? Guess the door banging against the wall must’ve startled me.”
“Latch probably didn’t catch when you came in.” She wondered what had drawn the Ghost Lady’s attention, and why she picked now to learn how to turn a door knob. Darci’s unease had doubled in the last few seconds, and she had absolutely no inclination to offer Stetson a Band-Aid or anything else.
“Yeah, that’s part of the joy in having one of these older houses. Mine’s the same way. The more it settles, the more it creaks. Had to have the bottom of the pantry door planed off nearly two inches last year, when the settling had it dragging the floor. See, I believe your husband will have plenty to keep him busy over at our place.” His wink made her skin crawl. She tried not to flinch, since Wade had his heart set on the job at Clydell Manor. “Have him give me a call sometime next week.”
The gust of wind that blew the door open acted with the same force in closing it behind Stetson Clydell. The slam rang through Petal Pushers.
You better go, Clydell! And don’t you ever show your face back here again.
So many memories ticklin’ around in my head, but they just cloud over before I can see ‘em real clear. I cain’t recollect how certain things came to be, but one thing I do know is that whole blessed Clydell clan ain’t nothing but trouble, and downright dangerous. My head felt like it was about to split right in two when he walked through that door, and a rage I haven’t felt in years boiled up inside me. I won’t h
ave him hurtin’ Darci like he’s hurt other folks. That man doesn’t have no business comin’ around here.
Petal Pushers Plant of the Month for September is
Sweetgrass
Hierochloe odorata
(Not to be confused with Muhlenbergia filipes)
Perennial
Common name: Buffalo Grass, Seneca Grass, Bluejoint, or Vanilla Grass.
Brief description: Sweetgrass is native to North America and Europe. The dark green leaves grow to about two feet tall. The aroma is absolutely intoxicating, and I can’t make myself or my customers quit sniffing it.
Symbolism: peace and healing.
Trivia: This sacred plant of Native Americans is used for smudging. Sweetgrass is also used in basket weaving.
Growing instructions: Grow in full sun or partial shade and keep the soil moist. Sweetgrass blooms from June to August.
Uses: The grass should be cut, braided, and dried in late June or early July.
Tools & Tips: Ants driving you bonkers crawling all over your plants and veggies? Cancel that order for the anteater and start saving up your used coffee grounds instead. Sprinkle them in a solid line around the base of your plants, and the little pests will stay away. They don’t like to crawl over the coffee grounds. Cappuccino anyone?
Chapter 10. October
Flowers have spoken to me more than I can tell in written words.
They are the hieroglyphics of angels,
loved by all men for the beauty of their character, t
hough few can decipher even fragments of their meaning.
Poison, Perennials, and a Poltergeist (The Petal Pushers Mystery Series) Page 14